


proximity alert

by devviepuu



Series: sanguine, adj.  'hopeful' (it also means bloody) [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Space Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-12-28 19:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21141830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devviepuu/pseuds/devviepuu
Summary: space pirates!enemies to lovers!angst!loosely inspired by the firefly episode 'shindig'





	proximity alert

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RecoveringTheSatellites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecoveringTheSatellites/gifts).

> happy birthday, [RecoveringTheSatellites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecoveringTheSatellites)!
> 
> i couldn't find the words to describe what a treasure you are, so i found other words.
> 
> all gratitude to the inimitable [profdanglais](https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdanglais/pseuds/profdanglais)

There was a queue to get in. This was, in his experience, a good thing.

The marks--_the gentry_\--had a habit when it came to gatherings of this nature, so deeply ingrained that it may as well have been an instinct: the harder it was to get in, the more desperately they needed to be there. Killian Jones might not be gentry, but he had once been an officer and he was still, by his own estimation, a gentleman, and he had been to plenty of parties like this one.

Before, he’d been an invited guest. Now, he still had an invite--he just came in under another name, and got out as quickly as possible.

The room wasn’t overly crowded, which belied the queue outside, but circulating waiters moved in a dance from group to group, deftly avoiding the partygoers who were themselves dancing along with the live music. The waiters offered real food instead of the dressed-up, rehydrated protein in every color of the rainbow that was the common fare across the Federation.

And that was in addition to the over-laden buffet in the corner.

“Are those strawberries?” The audio quality of the earpiece was poor, and Will Scarlet’s voice crackled.

That was another thing about the gentry--it wasn’t enough to have the money. They needed to be seen having the money and, whenever possible, be seen wasting it. Just to rove how much they had, and how little they cared about it. It had been true during his days in the Federation Navy, and it continued to be true on every planet in every system he’d visited since.

“Bring me some, yeah?” Scarlet’s voice crackled through again. “On your way out?”

If Killian hadn’t already turned against the law years ago, parties like this one would have pushed him over the edge. Now they were his best source of income.

“Stop talking,” Killian said, keeping his voice low. “We’re here to do business and get out clean.”

“Captain--”

“There’s nothing to be seen here,” Killian insisted. “Just a bunch of swells making their usual fuss. Nothing we haven’t seen before.”

“Never seen _ that _ before,” Will commented.

Taking in the hovering chandelier, Killian mentally conceded the point. There was no visible mechanism suspending it from the ceiling as its different rings moved up and down, making points of light dance across the room--bright enough to make everything sparkle, but indistinct enough that the room felt quieter than it was.

“What’s the point of that, do you think?” Will snorted. “I mean, I get how they did it. But--why?”

“Scarlet.” It was a warning.

Will’s sigh not only made the earpiece crackle again but was probably loud enough for nearby partygoers to hear over the music. “Aye, aye, Captain--ow!”

“Sir.” Killian noted with some relief that it was Robin coming through the comm. “Locksley here. We’re keeping a lookout for your man, but no sign yet.”

“Short,” Killian said. He’d memorized the description of their contact. “Rather stocky. Red sash, worn crossways.” He continued moving easily through the party, being polite and unobtrusive, but avoiding eye contact whenever possible.

“On your two, sir,” Locksley said, and Killian turned as he had been directed. 

“Onward, then,” Killian said. “Off to score exciting new crime.”

“Beats making an honest living, sir,” Robin commented. Killian shook his head but did not answer as he approached their target. He kept his bearing upright and military, knowing from experience that it made him seem less threatening to the gentry. More like one of them, and less like what he was: a pirate.

The gentry, he knew, generally did not care to be reminded that so many of their money-making activities required the facilitation of a smuggler the likes of Killian Jones. And Killian had too many charges stacked against him to risk a dissatisfied client turning him in for the reward on his head. He played the game--the fancy parties, the appropriate finery. He did business.

It was still a relief to give Locksley the all-clear, the signal that the deal was done.

It was a relief until--”Locksley, cut the feeds.”

Killian just saw the flash of red out of the corner of his eye, but it was unmistakable.

“Sir?”

“Whatever system you’re piggybacked on, cut it and get out. Now!”

“Sir, we’ve just gotten a new gig, you’re in a room full of citizens--gentry, even, and--” He was resigned.

“Just do it, Rob,” Killian ordered.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Robin said, echoing Scarlet’s sarcasm. “Because I’d hate to interrupt your crazy time with the possibility of our imminent arrest.”

“I’ll see you at the exfil,” Killian muttered, tapping the comm to click it off. 

Wincing at the feedback that pounded through his ear.

Killian ran his hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck and--

There was a touch on his arm.

“Oh,” she said. “Excuse me.”

The sleeves on Killian’s borrowed formal coat were long, just brushing the edges of his wrists. He was also wearing gloves--his own--both in keeping with the favored fashion of this planet and to conceal the network of identifying scars creeping from his left arm to his left wrist, leading into his prosthetic left hand. She wore them as well, dainty scraps of lace--in contrast to his black leather--peeking out from the red sleeves of her gown and depriving him of feeling her skin against his.

Killian bowed, because it would be expected by anyone who might be watching.

But he could still feel the fire from where she had touched him.

“I was just wondering,” she said, her voice low and amused and exactly how it always sounded in his dreams, “if we had met somewhere before. You seem familiar.”

Even in the dimness of the hovering chandelier, her green eyes shone. It was always like this, between them. Always a dark room and a bad idea; always another round of the game they played.

“I don’t believe so,” Killian answered, playing along. “A beautiful woman such as yourself would be difficult to forget.”

He played along, but it wasn’t a game. No matter what they told themselves, it was never that.

She curtseyed, one of her eyebrows raised in a perfect arch. “And you strike me as the type of man who likes to leave an impression, Mr…?”

No names, that first time, because _ what fun would that be, _ she’d said. But then, later--reality had loomed large; that she had known all along and he--well. He’d suspected.

He just hadn’t cared.

“Sir Charles,” he said, inclining his head slightly.

“Sir?” The honorific favored by the gentry of this world clearly amused her.

“The sash,” he said, indicating the black fabric, worn crossways in the same manner as that of his target, pinned onto the coppery-yellow of his jacket and part of the cover that had gained him entry to the gathering. “It indicates lordhood.”

Her smile turned heated as her eyes ran over him, tip to toe, with appreciation. “It’s doing a great job,” she said. “You look--”

A passing waiter swept by, and Killian took a strawberry.

“I know,” he said.

Watched her watch him eat it, her eyes fastened on his mouth.

Killian Jones was a man who liked to push, to provoke, to ignore boundaries--but something about this woman gave him a death wish.

As the music changed, a graceful transition from a reel to something slower and more intimate, Killian pushed. “Would my lady care to dance?”

“Why?” The look she gave him was--for a tantalizing second--unguarded.

They were two ships, passing in the night. _ Closely_.

That was all there was. All there could ever be.

Killian took a step closer, bending down until his mouth was level with her ear. “To blend in, of course,” he whispered, and had the satisfaction of feeling her shiver.

When the collision finally came, it would be sudden. But betrayal was inevitable.

Killian led her into the dance, leaning into her as he positioned her arms, his fingers lingering at the pulse point on her left wrist. He could feel the way her spine reacted as he ran his hand slowly from her sacrum to her neck.

“You actually know how to do this--whatever this is?”

He laughed, and the sound surprised him almost as much as the momentary confusion that flashed through her confidence. “Of course,” he said, acting offended. “I am a gentleman.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said, the timbre of her voice reminding of him sheets rucked up around her waist and his head between her legs, and the feel of the blush creeping up the back of his neck surprised him almost as much as the laugh had.

“It’s hard to move in this thing,” she said, “but I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

“You do cut quite the figure in that dress, darling,” he said.

For three perfect minutes, they stepped through the elaborate figures of the dance. Killian savored every second, counting them down--wondering what had brought her here, to seek him out. Wondering how it was going to end this time.

He twisted her, moving around her so that her back was to his front, and they stayed like that. Moving slowly in a rhythm, neither noticing that the music had changed again.

“It’s called a waltz,” he said, and his voice seemed to come out of nowhere--like it was interrupting a dream. “There’s only one rule: pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

“Do you?” She seemed to feel it too, as something shifted in her demeanor.

Sooner or later, they always ended up at this moment.

Ever since that first time and he’d asked _ what if we take a time-out_?

Because Charlie and Leia--what did they know? They didn’t know about ships passing and the pressing, unbearable need to _ do something_, because alternative--letting it go--was unthinkable.

They didn't know what Killian knew: it wasn’t a game--it wasn’t something they played. No matter what they told themselves, no matter how many rules they broke. It was just something that _ happened_.

“I know what I’m doing,” Killian said, reversing the twist so that they were face-to-face, and dropping her hand.

“You’re lying,” she whispered.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“Business,” she said. “Same as you. Killian--”

He loved the sound of his name on her lips when she whispered it into the darkness; in the here and now, he’d give anything to hear the alias instead.

That name, in this place, was betrayal. Sudden and yet inevitable.

“Not yet,” he said. “Don’t say anything yet.”

He bowed again, an attempt to keep up appearances. “Thank you for the dance,” he said, his lips brushing against her knuckles when he took her hand.

She put her other hand on his wrist, both a threat and a caress. “Meet me in ten minutes at your exfil point,” she said, keeping her voice low.

Killian straightened, pulling his hand back. “How in the bloody blazes do you--” he paused, considering. “Smee?”

She nodded. “You should really tell him to ditch the hat,” she said with a faint grin.

“His mother made it for him,” Killian muttered. “Hand-knitted and all.”

“It’s a bright red homing beacon,” she said. “Never seen another one like it.”

Killian couldn’t deny it--had even had the argument with Smee himself, on more than one occasion.

“I believe the word he used to describe it was ‘cunning’,” Killian said.

A beat, and then another; the entire universe contracted into this moment and the intensity between them.

“No more time-outs, Killian,” she said.

“Are you here to arrest me?”

The bounty out on Killian Jones was immense--and it wasn’t for piracy.

Or rather, it wasn’t _ only _ for piracy.

The charges were lengthy and included theft, desertion, dereliction of duty and murder; the issue was that the theft and assorted military charges were so classified that even _knowing_ about them required high-level access and security clearance. The Federation could hardly afford for the entire galaxy to know that their fastest, most advanced piece of flying tech had been stolen out from under their noses by a deserter. The _Jewel of the Realm_ flew under a different flag now, with a different crew.

And only one person had ever come close to recapturing her.

She reached for him again, stepping forward, crowding his personal space. She pulled at his jacket until they were flush up against each other. Their noses touched, and she kissed the corner of his mouth, softly.

Then again, less softly.

Killian’s hand brushed against the apple of her cheek, his fingers threaded through her hair as the kiss turned into hot, hungry _ need _\--and ended, both of them gasping for breath.

Only then did Operative Emma Swan of the Federation answer his question. “That’s entirely up to you,” she said.

**Author's Note:**

> this entire rabbit hole was inspired by this tumblr post from fraddit:  
https://fraddit.tumblr.com/post/187474775301/space-bounty-hunter-vs-space-pirate-enemies-to
> 
> ...which may or may not be the current background on my laptop


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